


Hand and Tool

by NTEmbe



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M, Old Fics being Cleaned Up for Republication, Sparring, Who actually uses accurate timelines when writing fanfiction?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 16:44:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NTEmbe/pseuds/NTEmbe
Summary: In which Tseng decides enough is enough and invites Sephiroth to a sparring match in the middle of the indoor Soldier training facility. (Moved from my ff.net account and cleaned up/rewritten to a certain extent.)





	Hand and Tool

**Author's Note:**

> So, briefly I'd like to mention (yet again) that I have an old ff.net account that I denounced and discarded because the site staff never worked with me on an issue of plagiarism I had there, which then led me to leaving the site (and writing fanfiction) behind for many years.
> 
> Now over the last week I've been working on a smutty Tseng/Sephiroth fanfic, but it has a lot of roots in this fanfic I wrote back in May of 2011, which is "Hand and Tool." There are references to this exchange in "Hand and Tool" as the beginning of a long delayed, slowly growing relationship between Sephiroth and Tseng that made me realize that if I really wanted to start fresh in my fanfiction writing, I should revisit that old fic and clean it up. So I sat down with this shorter fic and tidied some bad grammar, some awkward sentences, some meaningless exposition and made the story flow hopefully much easier and read much better.
> 
> So before you call claims to me stealing my own fanfiction, keep this author's note in mind, please. And, for any of you looking for more in the ways of this fanfic, I hope you enjoy the newly cleaned up version of "Hand and Tool"-- as well as the much longer, more intense story I'll be posting soon after.

He was young. Silver hair down to the middle of his back, his frame elegant and superior physically to that of any of the men he commanded. His face was blank, empty beyond the mundane instruction given here or there. The lack of interest outside duty was only made more pathetic by the void where life should be in the emerald eyes.

The Turk frowned, eyes darkening as he watched him. He was too  _ young _ for this.

From across the large room another set of short, crisp instructions was delivered. The men before their general shifted instantly. Smooth, but not without anxiety. Well-trained and capable, but clearly not First Class. Worry and the hidden rush, fueled by the subtle piping of adrenaline, made their expertise brittle to the trained eye--made the young general’s façade a torture to bear for the suited Wutaian.

Breaking away from the Shinra legal assistant that spoke on, irritated but not fool enough to mention his frustration with the distracted Turk, Tseng stepped out upon the polished wooden floor, dismissing the other man’s comments brusquely. His darkly shined shoes echoed unusually across the tightly fitted planks meant for training purposes and the soles of bare feet or the thick, pronged rubber of standard issue boots for the Soldier classes. It was a long walk, and as he went he unhooked his cufflinks and placed them away in his blazer pocket. Eyes turned on him. Murmurs began their steady rise and fall as men both under the order of instructors and there on their own time noted the intrusion of the Turk. Before long, he had the attention of almost everyone.

Only one individual ignored his nearing presence. Another set of commands was given, this time firmer, confirmed that he was noticed as expected, but not genuinely welcome when roused eyes turned upon his. The Turk forced himself to hold back a wry smile. The general looked nearly suffocated. His eyelids lowered and he paused a handful of yards from the silver-haired Soldier.

“Take a break.” The Turk lifted his hand, something thin and dark between his fingers. It flickered through the air suddenly, snatched out of it just as swiftly by the taller man. It was a small, opaquely lacquered blade. The general’s brows ducked in faintly veiled irritation, though his eyes held onto those of the Turk, and under their natural intimidation, bewilderment stood watching. “They’ve learned all they need to know,” the Turk concluded.

A gloved hand gently turned the blade over, and then over once more, eyes falling from the Turk at last to study the camouflaged weapon. A silence had fallen over the entire gymnasium except for a stray, fast tempo song that came from someone’s stereo. At last the fingers examining the blade stilled and the Soldier’s arm rose, the small weapon held out for the Turk to take.

Tseng, however, stepped back.

To the shock of most, the Turk turned and walked away from the general. It was not long before the thoughts of a snub were wiped out of the minds of the onlookers however, for the Wutaian man abruptly shed his blazer. Stopping before a heavily locked armaments cabinet, the Turk opened it and withdrew a sheathed blade, casting his jacket over the top of the door.

“Engage me.”

He did not say ‘humor me’ as some might have expected. It was a peculiar way to ask for a match, and instantly grins and knowing smirks broke out amongst the onlookers. Very few disappeared as Tseng turned around to face the greatest Soldier amongst them, but they faltered as a softer voice broke through.

“Dismissed.”

For the first time that day, the general seemed to break out of the dull mist that’d clung to him like a second skin, eyes alight as they maintained their gaze on the suited man.

At first the men under his drill hung around hesitantly, not knowing what to do. Not paying any mind to them, Sephiroth lowered his head, the movement slight. With the invitation accepted, Tseng stepped forward at last, the long thin blade resting casually, comfortably in his hand. As the silver-haired man obligingly slipped out of the long leather jacket he had become known for, a white shirt beneath it, the Turk looked with mild curiosity across the room. “Turn it up,” he invited to the group of Soldiers lounging by a stereo on the bleachers. “It sounds good.”

Heads turned towards the group who shared looks of disbelief amongst themselves until one man shrugged and did as he was told. The few that did not look aside still largely missed the faint smirk that came across the Turk’s lips, so fleeting was its stay. The Second Class Soldiers under Sephiroth’s order at last began to disperse as the Turk neared, making room, as they saw it, for their superior and his next supposed victim.

The Masamune caught the light, the only sign of the space over which the silver-haired Soldier had moved before he was at the side of the Turk, naked blade to skin. A few hairs grazed by the fang fell severed to the floor. Silver eyes turned to meet unwavering, but searching emerald. “I could never match your speed in offense,” Tseng said lowly. “And you far surpass me in strength, and in reflex.” A soft sound came from the floor. Fully aware of the Turk’s unsheathed blade against his stomach, the general’s eyes slid from the Wutaian’s face to the sheath itself, tapped curtly against the ground.

“What is the purpose of this?” Sephiroth probed softly. His eyes slowly trailed back up the side of the Turk, vivid green locking with misted grey. The Turk’s gaze remained steady in return, whatever fear or anxiety he might have had being hidden exceptionally well, or simply nonexistent.

“If you didn’t know the answer to that, would you have agreed to fight me?” Tseng responded.

Suddenly the obsidian-haired Turk thrust the sheath in between the Masamune and his shoulder, blocking the massive blade effectively had it been anything but the Masamune and wielded by anyone but Sephiroth. The katana jumped in the Turk’s hand simultaneously, the blunt edge suddenly facing forward. With similar swiftness, the general’s blade twitched downwards in response, biting into the sheath that protected the Turk with ease while the Wutaian’s katana swerved upwards. As the force of the blade hit the Masamune in its high arc, it provided the slim breadth of space necessary to lift the mighty weapon just slightly from the sheath, replacing one defense for another, one angle for a new one.

Aware of the uselessness of this tact, the Soldier stepped forward, applying enough force down upon Masamune as to make any opponent give under his strength. Not before, however, Tseng shifted the angle of the sheath. Now with the katana shifted to defense against the incredible blade and the Soldier that had not yet put in any true effort to combat his opponent, Tseng was left with a narrow line of space on the inside of the Soldier’s arm completely free to attack.

It was a mutual realization. Tseng’s eyes flickered up to the Soldier’s. One fraction of a second later, the sheath was thrust, digging voraciously along the inside of the silver-haired man’s blade arm. Moves such as these, when executed precisely and with the intent to injure, destroyed nerves, muscle, and the entire function of a limb. In this case, the accuracy of the shot to the inner elbow would— Sephiroth turned sideways, arm retracting instinctively. The sheath dropped and slid across the floor, several yards out of reach. Simultaneously the Masamune tore along the narrow edge of the katana, forcing the Turk away, accentuated by the smooth step backwards taken by the general. The distance between them now spanned the length of the Masamune in the Soldier’s hand.

The strength and balance to remain standing after a slash that abrupt from the silver-haired swordsman required harmony few possessed, so when Tseng anticipated the reflex move, leaning instinctively towards the Masamune and placing most of his weight behind the katana, it was still an accomplishment that he did not fall flat on his back in front of the entire training floor. He could have been sent flying by the strength Sephiroth had in his potential to exert, or at the very least been knocked off his feet, but he had gambled and won this time, repositioning his footing and distributing his weight to avoid that very outcome, owed almost entirely to the fact that Sephiroth was obviously in no mood to shed blood. The Turk’s reward?

The subtle tremor to the Masamune as it was held in the general’s injured arm.

Tseng’s eyes gleamed, locked with Sephiroth’s verdant irises. Through their gaze, all that was needed to be said was conveyed. Tseng had come onto this floor with aloofness and challenge to draw out Sephiroth. Now his eyes had grown steady, intent on the Soldier. But there was no desire for outstaging the general in his own territory that crossed that gaze.

Sephiroth searched for arrogance, vendetta, lust, but all he found was reception, a watchful, perceptive gaze that was as respectfully distant as it was an invitation. The Turk had made himself heard in the searing bite he’d left down Sephiroth’s dominant arm. Had Tseng not shown him how adept and serious he was, the play would have continued until Sephiroth tired of him. Another face to forget, another exchange to bury in the myriad. Nothing memorable. But that was not the case with this one.

Sephiroth’s grip shifted, reestablishing itself on the hilt of his great sword. Instantly Tseng broke to one side of his opponent. Rather than circling with him, Sephiroth came directly towards him. Lowering his arm to parry the inevitable meeting of two blades, Tseng spun lightly, continuing in the direction he had been attempting to circle around the general. His katana was kept constantly between himself and the Soldier. Anything less would pose potential risk of at least a month-long stay in the hospital, if not worse—something he could not allow in his line of work.

True, this was no fatal match. That had been decided since the moment Sephiroth had taken the crucial injury from the Turk. It was not life threatening. Nor would it even place Sephiroth inside the medical ward for more than a few hours. He continued to wield his magnificent blade as though no more than a cramp impaired its motions, rather than the cessation of all functions that the average Soldier would have experienced. Yet the importance remained within the honesty of their fight. Neither would kill, but to injure to destroy would be a necessary handicap for the Turk. Without it the challenge, the simple authenticity of engaging fully in the confrontation, would shrivel up. There would be no purpose, and nothing gained.

The Masamune tore at the katana’s edge, the general readily adjusting himself to meet with the angle of the Turk’s direction and running parallel to him—but it was the Soldier’s loss. The Turk slipped unexpectedly, as though he had lost his footing against Sephiroth’s blow, and in the instant he saw Sephiroth’s body fall for the feint, the Turk broke the slip into an evasive twist, gliding in the direction completely opposite of his supposed trajectory. Sephiroth of course, was a heartbeat behind him, if that. The objective had never been to reach an unprotected side of his opponent the Soldier had realized. It had been to regain the sheath.

Tseng lifted the battered cover with the same fluidity as one would any tool—long used to it. He had taken a step forward when the Soldier’s blade met with his, this time with enough force to push the Turk back a considerable distance, though he remained standing and altered his direction to avoid being backed into a corner. Another blow followed this one, and then another. Each was progressively less powerful, slower. It did not escape the Turk’s notice that the way Sephiroth wielded his frightening blade was becoming more guarded. His arms and Masamune were held in a position that continuously minimized the chances that a move, such as the one before, could successfully break through his guard. Making gliding leaps sideways, paired with steps backward and forward as needed in a defensive-offensive couplet, Tseng wove an intense and progressively complex pattern with the general mirroring, learning steadily the motions of the indelible Turk. The sheath Tseng had retrieved provided another weapon with which to compound his tactics. Strikes became deceptive. Frontal or sidelong, the attacks were never as straightforward as they seemed, and on a couple of occasions the only thing that stopped blade or sheath from reaching the Soldier First were his superior reflexes.

How the battle remained balanced stood stark before every onlooker. Though gleaming lines of sweat bordered the Turk’s forehead and neck, and his breath came quickly, the skills and tactics he executed were either masterful or of his own creation. Deceptive moves became traps, assault masqueraded as evasion. Familiarity with the tactics of his opponent shone through with astonishing results. While the General remained as composed as before he’d accepted the fool’s match, in the face of the Turk’s explicit competence, his defenses rose and remained his concentration.

Then the Masamune caught the katana belly-up, broke the composure of the Turk’s face as it had stopped his attack. Tseng’s eyes widened momentarily, lips parting faintly in surprise. Silver eyes trained with refined attention on lush green.

Sephiroth’s face remained poised. Then…it was as though a mask fell away.

The blankness dropped to reveal gently easing silver brows. The eyes were less cautionary as well, revealing for the first time…an openness. The Soldier’s mouth was no longer set in a stoic frown, but was bare, unadorned with preconceptions. Just as the Turk had extended out a wordless offer to the Soldier, so Sephiroth now responded in kind. The silver-haired Soldier had been given something no one yet had dared or been able to provide for him. The world thought it knew all there was to know about the general of the Shinra Electric Power Company. In this haphazard, abrupt exchange, Sephiroth himself had learned something new—that the world could now know that he was not perfect.

The Turk’s mouth broke into a small smile. “Even you can improve more.”

Sephiroth inclined his head barely so only the other could see. Swiftly it had become not about the victory. The challenge escalated to a peak as subtly overwhelming as the exhilaration piping through a hidden undercurrent they alone could feel. The Soldier was unable to ignore the prominence of his rushing blood. Tseng broke the blade free, closing the distance between them with the intent to ravenously injure. Sephiroth could barely reposition himself to parry; doubled the threat to himself by challenging the assault with one of his own. The slower pace they had clung to before began to reverse and turn in upon itself. Each assault and parry, step and block was met swifter and louder. Metals clashed viciously against each other, clangs ricocheting throughout the room only to be broken by screeches as singing blades took blazing bites out of each other’s edges. Risk escalated as the men forsook elusion for offense, trying not to decimate but to outmaneuver the other.

Here they fought, and abandoned reputation for a chance at the new. Tseng knew Sephiroth could easily  _ destroy _ him in battle, in every sense of the word. With the speed and strength at his disposal, it took one move—two at most—to completely incapacitate even the most skilled of opponents. The Turk would have had little chance for life, let alone victory, had the general fought within his true capabilities. Yet Sephiroth had toned his own abilities down to allow the man a chance. He had felt it, become curious, taking the Turk’s invitation at far more than face value and saw a glimmer of what lay cloaked beneath the surface of another arrogant encounter.

This was the reason they were separate divisions, Tseng tried to get across to his better. Soldier and Turks. Their combination became electric, unstoppable for all the neutralizers in place. Fires were sparked, earth shattered by their lightning. They were not allowed to mingle, hatred and rivalry nourished at every chance, for the very reason now that the general and Turks’ next-in-line had discovered. Blades met not in war or competition but in an intense desire to push the limits of the other—to force them over the edge and to reach the euphoria upon the peaks of adrenaline and challenge.

Their superiors would have a field day when the news of this met their ears. The hand and tool were never to interact in this manner. Their purposes were to be determined by Shinra, and Shinra alone. While a semblance of free will was allowed them, each was kept upon a leash more real than their own lives. They were objects, persons designed to fit a role as cleverly crafted as it was tightly bound. Differentiation was eliminated, or the model that did not fit the mold was. Sephiroth was a weapon. Nothing more. The tool was for the use of those that gave it precise orders. It carried out those tasks flawlessly and always without question. To question was to lose the role of tool. That loss was unacceptable. By now, Sephiroth should know it intimately. Tseng, respectively, was an option. He was the hand that executed the actions passed down to it by those hands less capable and skilled, but plenty more dangerous to him than the objectives he accomplished for them. Failure to carry out the orders was the only problem. So long as the end was fulfilled, the method was dust under the rug. To fail was to speed the keen edge of termination.

They were in every way different, yet parallel lines ran through their lives. They looked upon one another and saw the distinction between hand and tool. Now, they cast that asunder. And became, once again, human. To this their echoes of blade-song and the abrupt, erratic rhythm of one clash after another became their central focus—a miracle reached that left a satisfaction in each of their faces that radiated as pleasure and fierce veracity. So ingrained were they that neither noticed or cared when another group of Soldiers entered the huge room.

Zack Fair, however,  _ did _ notice the stars of the scene… and wasted absolutely no time in grabbing the nearest Soldier Third present by the shoulders and pulling him up to his face. “Just  _ what _ in all of Gaia is going on here?!” he demanded, a hand cutting through the air in the battle’s direction.

The Third Class blinked rapidly and tried to salute while mouthing dumbly, awkward sounds coming from his mouth as he desperately tried to regain use of his voice. “I-it’s, it’s a, uhmm, a battle between the General, sir, a-and a, uh, Turk, uh sir?”

“I couldn’t  _ tell _ ,” Zack said and face-palmed. He pursed his lips together, releasing the Soldier Third and crossing his arms, looking out at the training floor. “What I mean, bud,” he said in a lighter tone of voice, “is how did this all start? And how long have they been going at it, anyway?” he added as an afterthought.

The Third seemed to regain his composure a little more now that his superior had calmed after the initial shock. “The guy just walked up and told the General what to do, then got a sword and tried to fight him. As for uh, how long they’ve been fighting, sir? It’s probably a little under half an hour now, I think…,” his voice dwindled increasingly until it almost disappeared altogether, cowed into silence as the spiky-haired man turned a dumbfounded face on him. But the blue-eyed Soldier turned away from the Third Class with only a low whistle. The Third, encouraged by this reaction, hesitantly spoke up again. “Uhmm, sir? Shouldn’t the General have wiped the floor with the Suit by now?”

Though the black-haired man turned his head faintly toward the Third Class, acknowledging his question, he kept his vivid blue eyes on the battle before them. “He could have,” he said, more to himself than the other Soldier. “He just chose not to,” he said even lower, eyes following the two combatants constantly.

There was a sudden stalemate, the Masamune knit in a twin hold between the katana and sheath, blocking any attack and any attempt to pull away. Tseng held the eyes of his taller opponent and silently raised his eyebrows. “Would you object to my thanks and quietly stepping out of this match?” he asked, voice surprisingly even. His body trembled perceptively and he had perspired through the neckline and back of his dark undershirt. His breathing was heavy if once more astonishingly composed, but his eyes remained as alive as they had grown during the battle.

“I do object,” the Soldier replied calmly.

The Turk’s eyes narrowed very slightly.

Faintly the Masamune ground against the katana held steady by the Turk’s hand. “The thanks are mine to give.” Sephiroth’s stance relaxed perceptively. “The rest I have no issue with.”

Another rare smile came to the Turk’s face, brows falling with an openly curious study of the man before him. With a hushed trill of metal and material against the Masamune, Tseng freed the massive blade from the hold he had caught it in, both weapon and case falling to his sides.

In silent thanks, the young general took a step backwards.

Lowering his head subtly, the Turk sheathed his appropriated blade and then raised his eyes once more to those of fertile green. “You  _ are _ welcome, Sephiroth,” Tseng said, intoning the ‘are’ heavily to show his sincerity.

“I will hold you to that, then, Tseng,” Sephiroth replied, a murmured rumor of humor in his voice.

The Turk quirked a brow though his face was pleased, and began to turn away. He raised the sheathed blade in an accepting gesture. “I hope you will.”

They separated, Tseng moving to retrieve his blazer and to return the sword that had received a plentiful workout while Sephiroth walked the shorter distance to where he had discarded his own leather jacket. As they did this, the awe or fear that had alike kept the onlookers back now broke. They spilled onto the floor and returned to their various areas or met with buddies to talk about what had just happened, many studying either or both of the men that paid no mind to either the crowd or one another now. Zack had just made it to the General’s side and opened his mouth with no better intention than to pry before a voice cut through the air.

“Sephiroth!” Eyes turned once again to the familiar intruder on their territory, preceding Sephiroth’s own returning attention to the Turk by mere seconds. Tseng stood near the armaments cabinet, and to the casual onlookers, his entire demeanor was now as cold as it had been aflame during battle. Sephiroth however, did not miss the faintly upturned corners of his mouth or the lightly lowered eyelids. “You should test them on what they learned from that presentation.”

As mild outcries rose and half the others gawked overtly at the Turk—Zack amongst those gawking—Tseng turned away and walked with a purposed, even step out of the training facility. When Zack looked back to Sephiroth, a comment ready to shoot off his tongue, he suddenly choked on it and did a double-take. Sephiroth stood there smiling elusively, eyes on where the Turk had disappeared.

“Oh mother-flippin’ dolphin-lovin’ Shiva drippings,” Zack groaned and threw an arm around the general’s shoulders in protest, bending over as far as he could in that position and hanging his head. “You’re going to  _ listen _ to him, aren’t you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this over. I hope you enjoyed these two. They're honestly far from as thoroughly explored as I wish they were. There is so much potential for the General of Soldier and the (soon to be) Leader of the Turks to have an incredible dynamic. I hope my writing opens people's eyes to this potential. Take it and fly with it, my loves. Write these possibilities into existence!


End file.
